


Office Hour

by etave



Category: Wire in the Blood
Genre: AU, M/M, PWP, Teacher-Student Relationship, academic setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etave/pseuds/etave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Gant visits his tutor, criminologist Dr Tony Hill, to discuss his third year dissertation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Office Hour

“Hi, Peter. Sit down – I’ll be right with you.” 

Dr Hill was sitting behind his desk in his shirtsleeves, looking over some papers, and gave Peter only a cursory glance as he entered. He sounded distracted, which was not unusual; nevertheless, Peter got the distinct impression that he was pissed off with him, and he had a pretty good idea why. 

He took a low armchair next to the coffee table and put his bag on the floor beside him. It was two-fifteen in the afternoon, and the temperature had hit the low 30s. Dr Hill had two desk fans whirring away, one on a filing cabinet, the other on the end of his cluttered desk, and he had drawn his blinds against the sun. The darkened room smelled sweetly of book dust and warm plastic, and as he waited, Peter began to feel slightly sleepy. He tried to marshall a few reasonable excuses for the anticipated criticisms, but when Dr Hill finally put his papers aside, the sound startled him, and he realised he had been dozing off.

Peter sat up, and tried to look alert as Dr Hill settled into the armchair opposite him. 

“Right, let's talk about this.” He leaned forward and placed a sheet of A4 paper on the coffee table, rotating it in his favour so that he could read it. It was the abstract for his dissertation: half a page of woolly argument which he had banged off in ten minutes, and dropped into Hill’s pigeonhole just before lunch. 

“I was expecting an outline of your approach and a reading list as well as this excuse for an abstract, but since you didn’t give me much time to read it, I suppose I should be grateful you kept it short.”

“Sorry, Dr Hill. I ran out of time. I can get the rest to you by the end of the day.”

“Make sure you do that, although I probably won’t be able to look at it until Thursday. It’s a busy time of year for all of us, not just the students.” He let his cool stare continue for a few seconds longer. Gratifyingly, the lad averted his eyes and started to fidget, first biting his thumbnail, and then – having realised what he was doing – crossing his arms defensively.

“I’ve started revising,” he persisted. “I’ve just had a lot on recently...” 

“So I hear. You were late for Dr Maxwell’s seminar last week, and then you fell asleep during it. He said you told him you had a medical appointment. Are you still going to that clinic? After everything that happened in your first year?" 

Peter blushed. “I'm not proud of it. It's easy money. I'm sorry, I need to do it.”

“Is money really that tight?"

"Yeah, and so is my time. I did what you said, and dropped the bar work, but I've still got a part-time job at a packing plant, and what with that, and my lessons, and the essays, and revision for the exams..." 

He was genuinely contrite, and there was no need for Hill to let him gabble on, but he listened without comment as he tried to placate him, switching from earnest to persuasive, and from flirtatious to cocky, without any success, of course. Peter was charming, but Hill was determined not to be charmed. He had already decided how this meeting was going to end.

“I'm really sorry about the abstract, Dr Hill. I know you think I don't take my studies seriously, but you're wrong. I’ve started reading for the dissertation already, and I know pretty much what I want to write, but I have to pay my rent, and I have to eat.”

Hill met his worried brown eyes, and sighed. “I don’t need to hear apologies, I just want you to do well. Given the pressure you're under, I suppose I'm lucky you found the time to produce even this paltry effort. I bet you don't have much time for a social life either.”

“I don’t, really,” he acknowledged, glumly. “Just as well, seeing as how as I don't have the money for one. I get wasted on a Friday night with a few mates, that's about it." 

“So you’ve spent the entire term either studying, working, or wanking off for money, with the odd drunken binge to cut the boredom?”

Peter raised his brows. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“No time even for girlfriends, dating, that sort of thing?”

He shrugged. “I was going out with someone, but we split up just before Christmas, and I don’t really want to get into all that stuff again.”

“Stuff?”

“Relationships,” he said, sourly. 

Hill chuckled. “You don’t need to throw yourself straight into another relationship. There are plenty of girls out there who are only looking for a good time. For god’s sake, you’re twenty years old! These are the best years of your life – you should be getting your end away while you still can.”

Peter was a little taken aback by his tutor's sudden interest in his sex life, but at least they were no longer talking about his abstract. Perhaps Hill had been in the pub over lunchtime, and was feeling fatherly. “I just don’t think I’m ready to get serious, and that’s all the girls I meet are interested in: commitment. Long term relationships.” 

“Have you tried being upfront about just wanting a bit of fun? The direct approach can often work if you’re honest, and pick your moment carefully.”

“Yeah, well it’s not that easy. You can’t just walk up to a girl in a bar and say, ‘Fancy a shag?’, can you? I’d be lucky if I didn’t get kicked in the balls before she reported me for sexual harassment.”

“Don’t they ever do the asking?” 

He snorted. “Well, no-one’s ever asked me – not straight out like that.”

Hill sighed. “You must be going wrong somewhere. I can't believe that every girl in Bradfield is obsessed with finding someone to settle down and raise children with.” 

He ducked his head, smiling. “Yeah, okay, okay, point taken.”

“I'm serious. You can live like a monk when you're my age; in the meantime, I suggest you get out there and put yourself around a bit.”

“Um, thanks, I’ll try,” he said, simultaneously embarrassed and bemused by the turn the discussion had taken. Was Dr Hill really not getting any action, or was he just speaking figuratively? He was handsome for a man his age, he thought, idly, and he could definitely pull if he wanted to. At least two of the girls in his seminar were completely besotted with him. He bit his lip.

“Perhaps you just need a little practice in recognising an opportunity when it presents itself,” Hill observed. “For example, if I was to say to you, ‘Peter, you’re a good-looking lad, and I’d like give you head, right now, here in my office’, how would you respond?”

Peter felt the world swing sharply away from him. He blinked at Hill. “Sorry, what?” 

He repeated the question in the same level tone, adding, “It’s a straightforward enough proposition – most men would consider it a no-brainer. And close your mouth, gaping like a moron doesn't look good on anyone.” 

“You want to know what I’d say if you offered to, er, to do that?” he asked eventually. 

“Mm-hmm.” He watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction, but Peter was staring intently at the paperwork on his desk, fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck. If he had been pink-cheeked before, he was positively scarlet now.

After a pause, he ventured, “Um, well if you meant it, I s’pose I’d say yes.”

“I do mean it. You just told me that you haven’t had sex for at least five months – I think that’s a criminal waste, and I’m offering to remind you what it's like to ejaculate somewhere other than a glass beaker.”

A much longer pause. 

“What if someone comes in?” he asked at last, touchingly hesitant. 

Hill smiled to himself. Not ' _I’m sorry, I couldn’t'_ , but _'What if someone comes in?'_ Bless his guileless, suggestible, randy little heart. 

“Can you imagine anyone walking into my office without knocking?”

“I s'pose not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re pretty scary?”

Hill smirked, having made his point. “Anyway, the chance of being caught in the act – however unlikely – adds to the excitement, doesn’t it? Come over here.”

With a growing sense of unreality, Peter stood up and walked round the coffee table to stand in front of Dr Hill, already achingly hard. Hill hadn’t taken his eyes off him from the moment he had popped the question, and now he was practically ogling him. _Christ_ , he thought, _he fancies me! Why didn’t I notice something before? I know he likes me, but I thought it was a father-son thing. Does that make it even weirder?_ He tried to recall anything Dr Hill had said to him in the past that might have given an indication of his tutor’s attraction to him, but drew a blank. Hill was looking at him appraisingly; he smiled faintly, self-consciously; being looked at like a sex object made him feel distinctly odd.

“Take your t-shirt off – it’ll get in the way,” Hill said calmly.

Peter yanked his t-shirt off over his head, revealing a sturdy, well-proportioned body. He had a surprising amount of fine tawny hair on his chest. 

“Closer.”

Hill positioned him in front of him, between his knees, then unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his knees. Leaning forward he kissed his solid erection through his blue boxer briefs, breathing in the musky scent of his crotch. Peter flinched, and when Hill licked the dark wet spot that the pre-ejaculate leaking from his prick had made on his briefs, he moaned, “Oh fuck!”

“Try to keep quiet,” Hill murmured, tugging his briefs down. His surprisingly large, stiff cock bobbed lewdly as he freed it. “You can hold onto my shoulders if you like.” 

Hill shifted forward in his seat, then dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of him, kissing him all over his groin and nuzzling his balls. His tongue snaked wetly into the heated crease of Peter’s thigh before he finally took hold of his hips to keep him still, and drew his rigid, silken-skinned cock into his mouth.

Peter gasped. Hill’s mouth was warm and wet and absolutely fucking wonderful around him, and the effort of keeping quiet was making him shudder. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, concentrating instead on the soft sucking and licking sounds and the susurration of the fabric of Dr Hill's shirt as he kissed and caressed him, the rattle-and-hum of the desk fans, and the quiet murmurs of students exchanging anxieties in the corridor. 

Dr Hill’s warm hands slid round to cup his arse, and he squeezed and palmed his buttocks, then let his fingertips slip into his cleft. Peter tensed, but Hill continued to stroke him until he relaxed, sufficiently beguiled by what he was doing with his mouth to tolerate this disturbingly intimate caress. 

When he no longer reacted to the gentle teasing of his tight entrance, Hill stopped sucking him and sat back. 

Peter’s eyes snapped open; he almost whined with disappointment.

“Have you ever had your prostate stimulated?” 

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking.

“You’ll like it. Most men don’t know how incredibly sensitive it is.”

He nodded, slightly nervous now, as Dr Hill reached into his pocket and took out a packet of lubricant, then squeezed some onto the middle finger of his left hand. “Relax… this isn’t going to hurt.”

Dr Hill reached behind him and found the place, then eased his finger into him, leisurely, smoothly, until he could feel his palm pressed tight against his backside. He was right – it felt cold and slick, but it didn’t hurt at all. He moved his finger a little deeper, and suddenly, a brilliant, excited warmth surged through Peter’s groin. He caught his breath, clenching around the finger, and gripped Dr Hill's shoulders to steady himself as he resumed kissing and mouthing his cock and balls. 

Glancing down, Peter found himself staring at the top of Hill’s head. His thick brown hair was touched with grey. _This is your tutor, you pervert!_ , a tiny voice in his mind was yelling. _They could fire him for this. He’s probably having some sort of breakdown, and he’s gone a bit rampant, and you’re taking advantage of him_.

“Dr Hill,” he started, meaning to ask him to stop, but not knowing how to phrase it. He swallowed, dryly. 

“Am I hurting you?” Hill murmured, taking the head of his cock between his lips again, and licking the seeping slit. 

“Oh Christ!… er, no, no… it doesn’t hurt.” His voice was slightly strangled. “It’s just… are you sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely. Stop worrying, and relax…” 

Defeated by Dr Hill's evident enjoyment of what he was doing, and the amazing sensations he was wringing from his body, Peter gave up his half-hearted attempt at doing the honourable thing, and did not protest again. Hill increased the rhythm of his sucking, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, pulling him off smoothly, his finger sliding gently in and out of him, and synchronised his movements so harmoniously that within a minute Peter's thighs were shaking and he was trying to stop himself from thrusting into his mouth. Within two, he was on the brink of orgasm. 

He tried to pull back just before he shot, hissing, “Er, you should stop - stop! - I’m going to, um-“ but found he couldn’t actually say the word, and then it didn’t matter anyway, because it was too late. 

Dr Hill seemed to take him halfway down his throat, holding his hips firmly, his tongue moving slowly against the underside of his cock. With one last stroke over that sweet place deep inside him, Peter's vision darkened, his whole body went rigid, and he was coming and coming and coming, breath hissing through his clenched teeth, as Hill swallowed his spunk, working him steadily until he was utterly drained. 

Almost before he realised it, it was over. He was brought back to his senses by the feel of cool air on his wet, over-sensitised prick as Hill let it slip from his mouth, and a falling sensation in his bowels as he withdrew his finger; with a guilty start, he let go of the man’s shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do it in your mouth… are you okay?” he asked anxiously, but Hill just wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and chuckled. 

“It's fine, don’t apologise,” he said, passing him a tissue from a box on his desk. 

Peter cleaned himself up quickly – there were saliva and traces of semen in his pubic hair, and around the base of his prick – and pulled up his jeans again, fastening them with trembling fingers. He was light-headed, dazed, and slightly disgusted with himself; his legs felt like two strands of boiled spaghetti. He bent to pick up his t-shirt. "Do you want me to, um, do anything?"

“Of course not. Christ, look at the time – you’ve been in here nearly fifteen minutes,” Hill said, rising and brushing off the knees of his trousers. "Where were we? Oh yeah… now listen to me, Peter: this is important. I’m not going to tell you off for your half-arsed abstract – you know you let yourself down with it.”

He nodded, and mumbled an automatic apology as he pulled on his t-shirt. “I know it’s a bit short, but is it okay?”

“What there is of it is absolutely fine, but as far as I’m concerned, your lack of preparation is just a symptom of a more serious problem. You’ve got a first class brain, and you’re wasting it because you're spreading yourself too thinly.” He returned to the chair behind his desk. “It’s obvious you know your material thoroughly, but I'm concerned that you're not making use of what you’re learning.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t keep apologising! I just don’t want to see you ruin what could be a very promising academic career because you’re too unfocused to really give it all you’ve got. It’s time to get your arse in gear. The university has a hardship fund. If you apply for it, I'll write a supporting statement for you.”

“Thank you, I will, I promise,” he said, meaning it. He ran a hand through his thick, sandy hair to tidy it, and stood hugging his bag to his chest.

“Good lad. Finish the abstract and get it to me with your reading list by Thursday, and I’ll approve it. When you finally get round to the dissertation itself, pay close attention to the role of neurochemicals in inherited disposition. They’re more important than most people give them credit for. What else? Oh yes, try to avoid slang – you've got a tendency to be too conversational at times. Keep it clear and concise.”

“Okay, I will.” 

“Good. Any questions?” he finished, not really expecting a response: Peter looked exhausted.

“No, I think I know pretty much what I want to do, like I said. I just thought perhaps it was a bit of a lame subject. I mean, it must have been done a dozen times before.”

“Not at all - it’s fallen out of favour over the last five years, so you'll probably be the only person writing about it. You’ve got the savvy to produce a good, solid piece of work. Don’t worry about trying to dazzle them with your writing style, or saying something radical or new on the subject: you don’t have time or the expertise for that – yet. This isn’t a thesis – it’s supposed to demonstrate your ability to research your subject and assemble an insightful, cogent argument, something you’re more than capable of. Leave the showing off to the likes of Claire Barclay. She might pull firsts for most of her essays, but they’re triumphs of style over substance, for the most part. She doesn’t have half the talent or intelligence that you have.”

Peter seemed to have relaxed slightly while he was talking, and he smiled self-consciously at the compliment, ducking his head. It was very endearing.

“Right, off you go then. Have a productive Easter. As you know, I’m leaving for a year’s sabbatical at the end of the week, so we probably won’t see one another again before you graduate. Dr Maxwell will be your supervisor – he’s a good man, but a bit out of his depth on the nuances of environmental influences, so I’d ask Elaine Pitt to read your dissertation too, if I were you. Good luck.”

He stood, and held out his hand to him. Peter, apparently feeling something more than a handshake was called for, shook it, then leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek, surprising him.

“Thanks for everything, Dr Hill. And, er, good luck in London.”

“Thanks. Remember what I said – you’re a very bright lad, you just haven’t realised it yet. If you need a reference, email me, hmm?”

“Okay.”

“Good – off you go. Send the next poor bastard in.” Hill had gone back to his paperwork. He was dismissed. 

Peter picked up his bag and went to the door, wondering if Dr Hill was going to give the same attention to any of his other tutees. As he reached for the door handle, he called after him, without looking up, “Don’t be an idiot, Gant – that was for you, and you alone. And if I find I’ve misplaced my trust and you’ve been blabbing about what just happened in the student union bar, my wrath will be swift and terrible to behold. Now get out, and mind you get a first for that dissertation. If you don’t, I won’t even write you a reference for a job flipping burgers in McDonald’s. Understood?”

“Yes, Dr Hill. Thanks again,” he said, and fled.


End file.
